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And A Lifetime’s Not Too Long…To Live As Friends (#1045)

By now, we all know that nothing lasts forever, except, well…forever.

But when you get to be my age, you also come to realize that a few things come awfully close. I’ve got a picture of myself standing on my grandmother’s brand new Victorian reproduction settee, when I was a toddler of two. I wore patent leathers and a scratchy crinoline petticoat underneath my flocked velvet and dimity dress, but baby, I had a huge smile on my face.

I couldn’t have known then that someday Grandma’s sofa would be an antique and a family heirloom, taking up residence in my own living room, where I’d often picture my future grandchildren standing in the middle of it, having their portraits made. A few things really do last nigh unto forever.

More valuable than the things, though, are the people, the ones who’ve known you since before you could read or write or exchange notes in the third grade by lifting up the lids on those made-for-sneaky-chatter desks at St. Elizabeth’s Catholic School, Miss Byrnne’s class, 1963. I took this picture myself with my brand new Brownie Starmite camera, and it must have been class picture day at school, which explains why we weren’t dressed in our navy blue uniforms and saddle oxfords. See that cute little brunette on the far right, in the front? I saw her again tonight quite by accident, my friend Patty, and I’ve got to say she looks exactly the same. But why wouldn’t she? I just met her in 1959, which seems like only a few days ago when my mind plays tricks on me. Other days, it feels like the better part of forever.

Katy By 1968, we graduated from the eighth grade. Here we are in our official class pictures. Patty’s hair is curly now and mine is not so long, but honestly? We’re the same girls we’ve always been.

On our eighth grade class outing, they actually let Patty drive the motor boat. I didn’t look frightened, but I’m pretty good at keeping a poker face when I’m scared out of my wits. And where the heck were our life jackets? I couldn’t swim as far as the next boat (the one containing Tim and Danny and Biff) to save my life, but I sure wouldn’t have admitted it on that glorious, carefree day.

To have people in my life who go back as far as I go with Patty, well. It grounds me, it gives me a rootedness that makes me happier than any material possession.

And it makes me so very thankful to think that some friends really do last forever.

Posted by Doug Raymond on 01/08/07
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Update On Projects Undertaken In 2006 (#1044)

I kind of like being accountable, in a way, to my fallible readers. After all, occasionally some of you jump on a bandwagon of mine (waving to Staci, who gave up pop when I gave up Starbucks) and you demonstrate remarkable success. But what about me? Do I ever actually succeed in following through on one of my harebrained ideas, or is the instant gratification of starting enough for me?

Here’s a run-down on my progress or lack thereof. I hope it inspires you to know that while I am old, I am capable of new tricks, or at least new attempts at old tricks. Therefore, young readers (and by my standards, believe me, most of you are YOUNG!), take courage!

Doug and I succeeded in completely avoiding coffee joints for two entire months. Then, slowly, over a period of a month or so, our resolve not only began to slip but slipped completely. We went from having one coffee per week to two, then every other day, then daily. What can I say? We are of all addicts most to be pitied.

Now, I am humbled to say, we are back on an every other day coffee run. I plan to move us into every third day as early as next week. These steps must be made as imperceptibly as possible, for the sake of my whiplashed husband’s equilibrium. The poor thing.

Next subject: Getting and staying out of debt. Well. As you know, we are in the final stretch of the most expensive years of our lives. During the period beginning Sept 1, 2006 (Kev’s opening day at the expensive two-years-in-ten-months bachelor’s degree program which will complete his education as far as our wallets are concerned) and ending June 30, 2007 (when our daughter Carrie marries Marc), we will indeed continue to rack up debt.

However, we are monthly throwing money at the paying down of this debt, and making excellent progress. By the time Carrie gets married, I believe we will have finished paying for Kev’s education (three college graduates, all debt-free!) and will have paid for the bulk of her wedding expenses—if not all. So far, the down payments on her dress, the venue, the photographer, etc. have been strictly pay as we go.

I gotta’ say I’ve become quite a fan of Dave Ramsey. He’s only been on the radio here in KC for a few months now, but he’s got my attention. When callers call claiming to have household incomes WAY below ours, and that they’ve paid off umpteen dollars in debt and have even paid off their mortgage in only a few years time, well. I’m on board.

How about losing weight? I started in earnest dropping pounds in June, after realizing that my Mama Escapades of 2005-2006 had caused weight to creep back on at an insidious but alarming rate. Since then, I’ve shed a cool 27 pounds. My jeans are a size 2, but as we all know by now if we’ve read anything about “vanity sizing,” 2 is the new 10. Now Doug and I have embarked on a renewed effort to EXERCISE, which for us means trodding the treadmill. Today is Day Three.

And the decluttering project? Oh, my. Carrie moved in on July 31 with all her stuff, and will stay until she gets married. Kevin moved all his stuff in before leaving for Switzerland. It’s a freakin’ zoo around here. It’s nearly impossible to make headway with the added stuff, so I’m having to concentrate on not bringing any more into the house than is already here. When they move out, they’ve got to take ALL their things, or they will be donated to charity and WE’LL get the tax deduction.

What about that novel I’m writing? NaNoEdMo went reasonably well, although November started and ended with my mother-in-law’s health problems. Four hospitalizations in a six-week period did NOT add to my productivity, but she’s doing a bit better, and that’s the main thing. I am STILL working on my novel, and the darned thing keeps improving, making me think it’s not time QUITE yet to stick a fork in it and proclaim it “done.” So I plod (if not plot) along.

There you have it. Some successes, some failures, lots of room for improvement. All in all, just another old chick, Muddling Through.

Posted by Katy on 01/05/07
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Firmly Resolved (#1042)

There are a few things I must have resolved somewhere along the way that have actually stuck. They weren’t New Year’s resolutions, just things I determined to do or not to do, and succeeded.

As prone to addictions as I seem to be, I decided as a young woman that reading racy romance novels would not be in my best interest. I knew that I’d end up one of those girls who reads one per day and can’t go to sleep until she finishes the one she started at the office and turns down offers of a social life so she can stay home and devour another morsel. I also knew old ladies (my grandfather’s live-in maid was one) whose otherwise sparsely-furnished one-room apartments were filled with cardboard boxes from the A&P stuffed with yellowed paperbacks, whose well-worn covers were as ripped as the bodices within.

Yikes! I did NOT want to be one of those old ladies! I firmly resolved not to get started, so I wouldn’t have to firmly resolve to stop!

Even so, I managed to get sucked into The Guiding Light after Scotty was born in 1979. I watched that darned thing every day until Kevvie came along 5.5 years later. I used to send Scotty and Carrie up for their naps so I could imbibe in peace, but come on. Do other 5-year-olds still take naps? Finally, one day Scott said to me, “Why is this show OK for you to watch, but not OK for me?”

I couldn’t come up with a good answer fast enough. The TV got turned off once and for all, at least at 2 in the afternoon M-F.

One other thing I’ve sworn off before starting—because I could somehow see the end from the beginning and the end involved me being a bag lady—is scrapbooking. I realized that shopping for the various elements of the making of the books would be the thing that would latch on to me and not let go. I prophesied that no actual scrapbooks would be created no matter how wholeheartedly I claimed to be embracing the hobby. Only shopping would be accomplished—and lots of it.

So I just said no, to myself and to all those who may have imagined themselves as hopeful future recipients of a Handmade Lovingly Fashioned Katy Scrapbook. Darn. Even now, I’ll admit I’m still tempted…

There you have it. Two things I’ve never done, because of my firm resolution and yes, I’ll just say it—strong constitutional willpower.

You can stop laughing now. And tell me: Any resolutions you’ve accidentally made that have actually taken? Because the ones I made yesterday, they are SO over.

Posted by Katy on 01/02/07
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Thumbnail Sketch (#1041)

All the retail shops are open on New Year’s Day, you know. I guess I didn’t quite realize that, until now.

You see, I’m not really much of a “day after” shopping gal. Although, I’ve gotta say that Carrie and I hit pay dirt on the 28th. Walmart had Christmas boxed sets of crystal hurricane-style candle holders for cheap—$2.50 each. They had exactly 30, the precise number we needed for centerpieces at her wedding reception. We cleaned them out, baby! Then, two days later, they marked the Christmas clearance stuff down again, by another 50%.

Darned if we didn’t hightail it in there and get a $75.00 refund! Oh, so gratifying. And cheap. Gratifyingly cheap.

But that was then. Today, I honestly didn’t even know if Starbucks would be open. Which would be a tragedy, since we received quite a number of gift cards to said establishment, gift cards designed—we are certain—to lure us back into daily imbibement. So far, by the way, they’re having their way with us. But I digress.

We did coffee and then Doug said he had a list of things he needed at Walmart. I said, “Well, I know we could use eggs and milk. Let’s pop in and check it out…”

Now, those words frighten men. Men don’t check out stores, at least not the men I know. Especially if they’ve just checked out the same store yesterday. Besides, Doug knows that I am DEDICATED to the proposition that not only SHOULD we be out of debt, but we WILL be out of debt, provided I apply the same discipline to not spending money as he applies to earning it. Therefore, my husband considers it his DUTY BEFORE GOD to help me live out my commitment by pulling me back from the edge—no matter how close, no matter how often.

He’s good like that.

Nothing, however, prepared me for what happened in the furnace filter department, the first stop on our shopping jaunt, where we put a year’s supply of that oft-forgotten home-maintenance item into our cart.

“What else is on your list?” I asked. I hoped for a brief but fruitful fling through housewares, crafts, groceries, car parts, home decor, electronics, DVDs, and maybe even—if he was feeling lucky—lingerie, with the man of my shopping dreams by my side.

He crammed his hand into his pants pocket and rooted around for awhile. Finally, his face registered success and he pulled out a comprehensive list of all his earthly needs. You know that saying, “Objects in mirror are larger than they appear”? Forget about it! This image of Doug’s fallible list is EXACTLY the size it appeared in real life.

A smidge more paper, and he’d have had room to add “nightie” to his list. Ah, well. Times are tough everywhere.

Posted by Katy on 01/01/07
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Holidaze (#1040)

So. The plan was to have our little family (Scott, Brooke, Carrie, Marc and no Kevvie, ‘cause of Europe calling his name) over at noon on Christmas Eve. Then, at around five, Doug’s family (Mom, Lynn, Nancy and Craig) would arrive and we’d all have my homemade Christmas dinner.

I cooked and cleaned and cooked and cleaned and….yeah. More cooking and cleaning. The only thing I didn’t do was break out my grandmother’s wedding china (circa 1925) from the attic and set the dining room table. The hours ticked by, and still I felt no urgency to pull out the cloth napkins and gravy boat. I’m not usually that relaxed, folks. In fact, I’m never that relaxed.

At 1:30, Adele called Doug. “I feel awful. I sure hope I’m better by the time Lynn picks me up at 4:30…” Her voice faded into wistfulness.

For weeks, through four hospitalizations and a nursing home stay, Adele had talked of nothing else but how much she looked forward to coming to our house for Christmas. But when it came down to it, another Executive Decision had to be made—by me, the Chief Home Executive.

“We’re taking Christmas to her,” I told Doug when he got off the phone. “Call her Funny Farm and ask if we can use that private dining room off the lobby. I’ll start packing.”

And that’s what we did. Adele got wheeled down to the party, and didn’t have the hassle of trying to drum up the strength to get in and out of a car and up the three steps to our front door. She seemed SO relieved when Doug called her back to say the location of the shindig had been changed. Sometimes, I’ve found, our elders are just BEGGING for one of us to bail them out of an obviously untenable situation, without them actually having to say, “I am not able to make this work.”

It was a fun party, and I think Adele enjoyed herself. Since then, we’ve made more progress on the process that began with her last hospitalization—that of attempting to get her medications sorted out, since they may be the source of many of her health problems.

Just in case you don’t know: Doctors are EXCELLENT at prescribing meds, but not so good at removing them. It often, if not always, takes determined effort and vigilence on the part of the patient and her family to revisit that old medication list and adjust it to reflect changing needs. As an example: When a woman loses 100 pounds and then has repeated episodes of her blood pressure plummeting to something like—I don’t know—zero over zero? Might be a good idea to eval whether or not she still needs meds for high blood pressure, don’t you think?

During her first three runs to the hospital, no doctor picked up on that. Or if they did, they didn’t let on. On the fourth trip, we hit pay dirt. A doctor willing to play the part, and not just on TV.

I’m rambling. I know. This past year or so, it’s what I do. It’s a coping mechanism, I guess. Rambling—touching on the high and low lights of a million tangential subjects while attempting in vain not to obsess about any.

Maybe my New Year’s Resolution will be to “Get Focused.” Sounds strong, but I have a feeling it’s too non-specific. How would I be able to quantify having achieved my goal? Here’s one that sounds a lot more doable, and I’m sure it will give me that sense of accomplishment I seek: “Muddle Through.”

I’ll be 53 tomorrow. If I can Muddle Through an event like that, I guess I’m up for anything.

Posted by Katy on 12/28/06
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Mail At Year’s End (#1039)

Doug’s mother got home from the hospital today, for the second time since Monday. I’m watching the clock, since she’s been back in her assisted living place for about six hours, and that’s how long she made it the last time before they found her blood pressureless and non-responsive, still holding the newspaper in a death grip in front of her face.

I’m not superstitious, you understand. I know there’s a very good mathematical probability that she’ll beat her old six-hour record and we’ll manage to stay out of the ER till tomorrow. Hey, it could happen. For today, we took our joy where we could get it—in Adele’s ten days worth of accumulated mail.

Doug’s sister Lynn wheeled her into the apartment and Doug got her situated in her recliner. Then she asked for the freakin’ huge stack of mail she’d witnessed them hauling out of her box. Some people live for money, others for power, and many for pleasure. Adele? She lives for junk mail.

Since we, her heirs, have only recently cut our own inheritance by two-thirds through the process of dejunkmailing her apartment, it behooves us to keep as much paper from entering therein as possible. Because folks, once it finds its way onto her couch, kitchen table, bookcase headboard, or TV tray, it becomes a part of her. She can’t distinguish the good from the junk, and therefore will part with none of it.

She opened a Christmas letter from a supposed friend today and started reading. Two pages of single-spaced typewritten annual news. After a few paragraghs, which Adele read aloud to us, she asked, “Who is this FROM?” Then she turned it over and said, “Jan? Do I know someone named Jan?”

Doug, Lynn, and I started chuckling, but Adele was not deterred from catching up on Jan’s life.

“She’s gone to visit her daughters, Charlotte and Renee. In Colorado. The girls came to Kansas City over Thanksgiving, this says.”

“But do you know a lady whose daughters are named Charlotte and Renee?” Doug asked.

“No.” She used her index finger to track along the page, reading aloud to us. “She says, ‘I sat by the pond on our old property and watched the Canadian geese land on the water and then fly away again. I bet I watched them for a whole hour.’”

OK, people, when an hour spent watching the geese gets top billing in your annual Christmas letter, you’re either very old, extremely boring, or Henry David Thoreau. Somehow, I figured Jan didn’t live on Walden Pond.

“Oh, no,” Adele said. She’d read under her breath for a few seconds while the three of us rolled on the floor. “It says here Ira died.”

“But we don’t know anyone named Ira,” Doug said.

“I do,” Adele said. “Nicest fellow you’ll ever meet. And his wife? Lovely woman. Marian is her name.”

“How do you know them?” I asked. “From your old neighborhood? Or maybe from church?”

Suddenly, the lights came on. “They live here!” Adele said. “Well, now it’s just Marian. Ira died. Says here they were married 68 years.”

I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t help thinking Marian’s hour of geese-staring got him.

“I’m confused,” I said. “If this letter is from Marian, who is Jan?”

Doug took the letter from his mother’s hands, turned it over, and melted into a puddle of holiday cheer. “Marian’s gone to Colorado, all right. Her last line says, ‘See you in Jan!’”

If I don’t post much in the next few days, you’ll know why. I’m either staring at the geese on the pond next door, or I’ve decided to see you in Jan.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Posted by Katy on 12/22/06
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Bingo! (#1038)

I’m baking whole wheat bread today, and yeah, I grind the wheat at home, immediately before baking. I’ll crank out at least ten loaves, maybe fifteen. A whole bunch of them—however many will fit—will get packed into an enormous rolling cooler and become my entry in the McKenna Family Gift Exchange. I fully expect my nephew Andy (who LOVES my bread) to fight for the right to walk away with the cooler and its contents. THAT will be fun to witness.

In the meantime, my anticipation level while grinding and mixing and kneading remains on high alert. Why? Because ANY SECOND NOW, I expect the doorbell to ring, and the good old FedEx guy to drop off another holiday package from Kohl’s or Amazon or wherever.

I can’t explain it. But the juxtaposition of the floury mess, the apron, the divine smells, the twinkly lights, and the doorbell really does it for me.

Any combinations you can’t get enough of?

Posted by Katy on 12/20/06
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I’m Sorry, But That’s REALLY Pathetic… (#1037)

You know what’s just wrong? When you don’t know which of the indie coffee joints around town have free wifi, but you know EXACTLY which hospitals do.

Posted by Katy on 12/19/06
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When All Else Fails, Change Hospitals? (#1036)

I wonder if it bodes well that two blog posts in a row have titles that end in question marks, but I digress. Wait a minute. Can I digress before I’ve started? I just don’t know anymore. But if I can, I do. So there.

By all indications, it’s morning. It’s light outside. Carrie left for work, I know. I stumbled into the kitchen and made coffee. Did I mention it’s light outside?

Doug and I drove separate cars last night, just because. I was in my pajamas when the call came that we were to meet the ambulance at the hospital, so I wasn’t sure how long I’d hold up.

The last thing I said to Doug before we each jumped in a car was, “You’d better do some fast thinking. If I were you, I’d make an executive decision to switch hospitals, now.”

He ended up redirecting the paramedics to a hospital clear across town—45 minutes from us. But at least the ER doctor took enough of an interest in her case to pursue getting her admitted. Have any of you tried to get admitted to a hospital recently? It’s no small trick.

The deal is that most of the primary care physicians in big cities seem to no longer have admitting privileges at the hospitals. In other words, if you show up in an ER with heart attack symptoms or whatever, they are NOT going to call your doctor to discuss your situation. Each hospital has its own staff of specialists and generalists, and it will be one of them who decides your fate.

Remember the old days, when your tried and true doc would visit you every morning in the hospital, while making his rounds? No such thing any more, folks. You will see all docs you’ve never seen before, who have no stake in your past or your future, no relationship with you at all, unless you’ve been there just last week, in which case they’ll want to dispense with you at the first possible opportunity, as you appear suspiciously like a liability.

Yeah. It’s like that.

Doug and I recently switched doctors, and we LOVED our old doc. But a couple of months ago, Doug’s sister was admitted to the hospital and we went to see her the next morning, a Saturday. While we were there, who should walk in but her very own actual doctor! And, it turns out, he has admitting privileges at an actual hospital! Unheard of around these parts. We liked everything about him, so we switched.

I can’t help but believe the continuity of care suffers tremendously when a patient is thrown in with a whole group of hospital-employed docs who are not vested in him as a person. I spend inordinate amounts of time and effort establishing good, solid relationships with those in whom I entrust the care of my loved ones so that when they need attention, the doctors at least recognize our names.

Anyway, last night we started over with Adele. We had no choice. Now we need to get up and go meet a whole new group of doctors, and hope that interest in her as a person is sustained long enough to provide some much-needed answers.

Posted by Katy on 12/19/06
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Big Fish? (#1035)

You know what I think?

(Warning: Serious Rant Just Ahead.)

I think that people in the medical profession—especially those old-school docs who believe that a patient and her family members should be seen, not heard, and heavily billed—should go ahead and figure out that some of us have google and know how to search it.

Because you know what? One of these days, I may pull this particular blog post out of the fallible archives and say “See here? When I documented for the entire Internet that before you dismissed my mother-in-law from the hospital on December 18, 2006, I googled ‘Vitamin B12 deficiency cancer,’ I didn’t do it for grins.”

Adele’s been in the hospital three times in six weeks. And spent two of those six weeks in a nursing home. Today, though, they’re sending her back to her assisted living apartment. Not only do they not know why she’s having these extreme bouts of dizziness and very low blood pressure (and I do understand that things like this aren’t always diagnoseable), but now Dr. G. is denying that she has non-exixtent B-12, a condition that’s been well-established in the past month.

See, in June of 2005, Adele had a near-death experience resulting in surgery to remove horrible abscesses which were wrapped around and connecting her gall bladder, liver, pancreas and etc. Then she’s told last month that she’s not absorbing B-12, which can cause all kinds of symptoms like dizziness, dementia, and neurological damage, some of which may be irreversible even if the vitamin problem is corrected.

Two days ago, a different doctor told the family that he was ordering consults with a hematologist and an oncologist, but he didn’t tell them what exactly he might be looking for.

So I google and find out that when certain abdominal surgeries are performed on an elderly person, B-12 should be automatically given by injection afterwards because the surgery may interfere with the body’s ability to absorb the vitamin if taken orally. And then the information went on to say that in a subset of patients who are not treated thusly, stomach cancer develops.

Hence, I suspect, the mention of an oncology consult. But even if they found something like stomach cancer, there’s not much they’d do about it. It’s usually discovered way late in the game, and she’s far too fragile for chemo or more surgery. Besides, little symptoms like losing a gazillion pounds without trying and having bouts of diarrhea don’t mean much in the bigger picture, do they? Purely incidental findings, wouldn’t you say?

Of course, none of this matters at all, because the good news is that as of today, all consults are off! And guess what? Not only are they not going to give her the daily shots they prescribed last night as being absolutely essential to turning her situation around, but she doesn’t have a B-12 deficiency at all! Ha! Such fun we’re having with her and her kids, jerking them around with all our talk about tests and specialists!!!

We’re sending Adele home, to live out her last days in the kind of oblivion formerly enjoyed by everyone, before google made it so pesky family members could figure out what the heck was going on by keying in a couple well-placed key words! Surely Adele’s family doesn’t include anyone who actually uses the Internet, does it?

She may be fine, people, but my head is spinning from all the back-pedaling I’ve witnessed in the last 48 hours. So I thought I’d just get it documented right here, right now.

I hope they’re telling the truth and I can’t read plain English. That would make everything much simpler going forward. But right now, something smells mighty fishy, and I’m no where near a Joe’s Crabshack.

Posted by Katy on 12/18/06
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The Race Is On (#1034)

I don’t know what style of Christmas shopper you are, but I’m the type who feels guilty at the last minute.

I began this whole event with a benchmark in place—the $$ I’d put into Traveling Kevin’s bank account to cover his Christmas break in Europe, which officially begins today. Tonight, he’ll take the train to Paris, where he’ll stay in a hostel for two nights before moving on to Germany to do the same. Then he’ll join a new friend of his in Austria, where he’ll spend Christmas with that guy’s family—an invitation for which I am most grateful.

Anyway, I started doing the comps and feeling like one of the kid’s hauls just didn’t pile up like the others, and that I have to make things fair. Because, really, I DO love them all equally and what if one of them began to think otherwise?

My daughter-in-law, Brooke? She’s like my own daughter, and I want her to KNOW that. And then there’s my soon-to-be son-in-law, Marc. Why, it wouldn’t do for him to feel like he’s any less a part of the family than the others, would it?

Yesterday, I’ll tell you, was like a horse race. Carrie was the first one out of the shoot, FAR ahead of the laggers for upwards of an hour. Then I went to Kohl’s and very nearly plunked down enough $$ to put Scott in the lead—but no. The saleslady reminded me that the Super Power Hours didn’t start until 3 pm, and I’d do well to come back then for even better bargains.

I left empty-carted. When I got home, I logged onto Kohl’s website to see if I could pick up an item that the stores are always out of—something for Marc. Of course, to get the free shipping, I had to spend $75. Luckily, I knew of several other things he wanted, so it didn’t take long for him to pull into the lead.

By the time Power Hours started, Doug and I were in the physical store again, where Brooke caught up with the rest of the horses. Then, on the way home, we stopped at Lowe’s, and darned if Scott didn’t win the race by a hare.

That’s right, a hare.

How long can I keep up this frenzied equalizing? Until the stores close on Christmas Eve, that’s how long.

But running into this video on YouTube is helping me rein it in a bit. Steve Martin is one of my favorite men. Hope you love it as much as I do.

Good Christmas Shopping to you!

Posted by Katy on 12/16/06
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The Giver (#1033)

What can you say about a God who would spend eternity planning to interrupt time with the gift of His redemptive love?

It’s not like He hadn’t tried a thousand times before the Nativity, tried to reach into the lives of those He created, tried to show them the way back to Him. They’d listen sometimes, too, and follow for a while, until things got too good and they didn’t think they needed what He had to offer anymore.

He knew what He would do all along, of course. He knew that giving the children of Israel His law would only serve to show them how far they’d fallen, and how they could never really be redeemed by the blood of goats and lambs. He gave them the law as a gift, but it was purposely incomplete, like giving a beautiful new car without a key or a platinum setting minus the perfect center diamond.

We tear into gifts on Christmas Day as if we’re missing something, as if the Father hadn’t already given us everything pertaining to life and godliness when He gave us Jesus, as if we still need something…else.

My heart is breaking this Christmas. I am close to so many hurting people, and it makes me sad that the one gift Who makes all the difference is often the Only One left untouched.

When you finish with the opening of the season’s bounty, when you’re gathering up the leftover debris of paper and ribbons and bows, take another look around the room to be certain you didn’t miss something…or Someone. There, in your child’s eyes, in your mother’s voice, in your friend’s smile, you just may find Him once again.

What can you say about a God who spent eternity past to give you the Christmas present of His Son? There is none like Him.

Posted by Katy on 12/14/06
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Not Just One Mama Mia, Either (#1032)

Carrie just popped into our bedroom to say good-bye. Hard to believe she’s already lived with us for over four months, but it’s true. It’s lovely having her here.

“Well,” I said, “they went ahead and admitted her last night.”

She shrugged her shoulders, clueless. “Who?”

“Grandma.”

“Grandma Who?” Poor Carrie.

She’d gone to Grandma Mary’s last night at my request. I was supposed to meet her there, where we were going to help Mom put together a “craft”—her contribution to our family’s gift exchange, an event she’s been stressing and obsessing about with a level of depression normally reserved for unhappy circumstances.

My mother’s been having a Holiday Meltdown Of Tremendous Proportions. She’s one of those people who shouldn’t be around weapons or alcohol or bungee cords or drugs from Halloween through Valentine’s Day. And then again from Easter until Labor Day. She’s safe, I think, except for the drugs—which always seem to flow way more freely than they should.

I never arrived at Mom’s. My car had a Holiday Meltdown, too. It was already dark when The Call Of The Mama lured me from my home, and I cannot see to drive after dark. But, heck. Mom only lives 15 minutes down the road, and I always say I could get there with my eyes closed. Of course, I could. As long as someone else was driving. My car’s defroster decided to malfunction completely and driving blind AND deaf takes all the thrill out of the sport.

So I pulled into our church parking lot, an eight-minute drive from our house, crying because I’d nearly wrecked the car, and found my cell phone in my purse. Why I carry the darned thing, I don’t know. I can’t hear on cell phones, but you know? In this day and age, it seems like the safe thing to do. Of course, since I never use it and don’t remember to recharge it because I never use it, I never…um…use it.

The church, bless its heart, looked open. I let myself in and experienced the meaning of the word “sanctuary.” I found a phone and called Doug, who said he’d come to get me. Then I tried to call Carrie’s cell, but she doesn’t answer it if she doesn’t recognize the number. An attempt to call my mother—who would now be worried because Carrie had arrived and I had not—turned up nothing. Were the two of them up in the facility’s lobby waiting for me? Who knew?

I waited and waited for Doug, and then decided to give my hobo bag a good jingle. Sure enough—I had not one but both sets of keys. Leaving him at home with a car but no way to drive one. I tried to call him again, but got no answer on either the home phone or his cell.

After thirty minutes of waiting, he showed up at the church. He’d found a spare key somewhere. Carrie finally answered the phone in Mom’s apartment and I talked Mom down from the ceiling. “Tomorrow,” I said, “in the daylight. I will be there. I promise.”

Doug had to go home for a business meeting. One of our cars got Left Behind at the church. Turned out Doug can’t see too well in the dark, either. He almost hit a concrete barrier that he mistook for a deer, swerving with such vigor to miss it that I had to take a muscle relaxor for my neck. Thirty seconds up the road, a genuine deer encountered a very near miss with Doug, who didn’t swerve at all that time.

“Which Grandma?” Carrie repeated, car keys in one hand and sack lunch in the other.

“Grandma Adele, of course. Who did you think I meant?”

That’s what happens when you go to bed at 10:30 like she does. You only THINK you’re up-to-the-minute on The Grandma Brigade, but trust me, if you blink, you miss something.

Doug’s mother spent much of November in the hospital and then the nursing home before going back to her assisted living apartment. Last night was her second ambulance trip to the hospital this month. They did not want to send her home like they did last week because…well, they are clueless why her blood pressure keeps bottoming out.

Today may be one of those Doug And Katy Raymond Divide And STILL Don’t Conquer Days, or we both may do both of The Moms. Together.

Together. Yeah, that sounds good.

Posted by Katy on 12/13/06
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When I’m Old, I Will NEVER…. (#1031)

OK, here’s the deal. It’s come to my attention over the course of nearly 53 years of observation that we humans spend a lot of time thinking about and committing to various versions of “When I grow up, I will be a different kind of parent…” or “When I get my own apartment, I will always have a bag of chocolate chips in the freezer…” or “I will never let my body go to heck in a handbasket like my mother or grandmother or sister or aunt has.”

You get the idea. You’ve said this stuff, too, right?

At this stage of my life, the thing I’m promising myself, my husband, and my children I will NEVER do is accumulate so much worthless junk that my descendents are unduly burdened with unsaddling it either before or after my demise. I tell myself EVERY DAY that I will stay on top of it, stay free of it, deal with it. And yet, I can’t help but notice that old people invariably stop dealing, and their kids have to do the job—kids who, while they chisel their way through the old folks’ debris, promise that THEY will never do such a thing to their children.

So tell me. What have you promised you’ll do differently than the behavior that’s been patterned for you? What makes you believe you can break the pattern? Do we merely deceive ourselves when we make these commitments, or is there hope? (Please, tell me there’s hope, even if you have to lie to do it.)

And if you have any reassurances you’d like to offer my adorable children about the future state of dear, old Mom and Pop’s basement, attic, and garage, I’m sure they’d appreciate the comfort right about now.

Posted by Katy on 12/12/06
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Repetitive Stress Ministries (#1030)

I know. Most people suffer sports injuries while actually doing…sports.

Not me. I learned my lesson on that years ago. In a flurry of binge-exercising sixteen years ago, I purchased a chintzy stair-stepper and went to town. OK, maybe not town, exactly. More like the operating room, but then, you’d probably already figured that out about me, right?

My orthopedic man fixed one of my knees (and I’ve managed to ignore the other one ever since) but I’ll tell you what: that was a very painful surgery from which to recover, complicated by the fact that I had a previously scheduled 5 for the price of 5 twelve-hour operation a mere six weeks later. Since then, my friends, I’ve sworn off surgery in a big way—except, of course, for brain surgery. But come on! Who counts that?

In order to swear off surgery, I’ve had to swear off exercise-induced injury. The beauty of lifting free weights eludes me, since the herniated disks (or is it discs? I don’t know…) in my neck cry out for mercy when I attempt so much as the hoisting of a gallon of 2% into the shopping cart. I cannot tolerate the pounding of pavement or any other surface less shock absorbant than shag carpet.

Mercifully, I no longer own any shag carpet.

I am able and sometimes go through spurts of using our treadmill, on which I’ve never injured myself, but I digress. Excercise, for me, is almost always a digression.

My topic today is not really sports injuries. It’s repetitive stress injuries, a subject with which I have far more intimate and ongoing familiarity. And more specifically, it’s what I have come to call repetitive stress ministries.

A repetitive stress ministry is one you can’t bear to give up, even though every joint and ganglion cyst you possess rebels against your heart. The ministry I don’t want to abandon is called Mercy and Truth in Kansas City. Cathy Gordon, the ministry’s founder, is an RN who has made medical missions her life. Besides setting up clinics in locations around the world, she runs several here in town. She even operates a birthing clinic, with the bulk of the mothers living below the poverty level.

A few years ago, I decided I couldn’t bear for these new moms—many of whom do not have heated homes—to leave the birthing clinic without a handmade afghan for their babies. And for a while, I cranked those puppies out, too—keeping up with the growing number of births with some efficiency. Then, well—repetitive stress set in and I had to have my dumb finger operated on.

Since then, I’ve barely crocheted. In fact, I haven’t crocheted.

Around the time I had surgery, though, a young woman who belongs to the same national writers group I do—American Christian Fiction Writers—contacted me. We’d never met, but she read my profile on the group’s website and saw that I loved to make blankies for babies. She asked if she could help.

Could she? Today I received an enormous carton of crocheted afghans plus a whole slew of darling hats for the babies at Mercy and Truth. A gift from Kathleen Morphy and her friend Karen, who enclosed a handwritten card for each new mother.

Maybe the hugest blessing to me is this: Kathleen has terrible tendonitis. She is a writer, and can hardly type because of the pain. In her daily life, she helps her mother take care of her dad, who has Lou Gehrig’s disease. Yet out of the goodness of her heart, she also stepped in to help me—a complete stranger.

Kathleen, I want to thank you here and now for joining with me in this Repetitive Stress Ministry. You’ve shown some sweet babies and their moms a lot of love.

May God completely heal you and grant you the grace to do all He’s planned for your life. And a blessed, merry Christmas to you.

Posted by Katy on 12/11/06
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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	And A Lifetime’s Not Too Long…To Live As Friends (#1045) By now, we all know that nothing lasts forever, except, well…forever. But when you get to be my age, you also come to realize that a few things come awfully close. I’ve got a picture of myself standing on my grandmother’s brand new Victorian reproduction settee, when I was a toddler of two. I wore patent leathers and a scratchy crinoline petticoat underneath my flocked velvet and dimity dress, but baby, I had a huge smile on my face. I couldn’t have known then that someday Grandma’s sofa would be an antique and a family heirloom, taking up residence in my own living room, where I’d often picture my future grandchildren standing in the middle of it, having their portraits made. A few things really do last nigh unto forever. More valuable than the things, though, are the people, the ones who’ve known you since before you could read or write or exchange notes in the third grade by lifting up the lids on those made-for-sneaky-chatter desks at St. Elizabeth’s Catholic School, Miss Byrnne’s class, 1963. I took this picture myself with my brand new Brownie Starmite camera, and it must have been class picture day at school, which explains why we weren’t dressed in our navy blue uniforms and saddle oxfords. See that cute little brunette on the far right, in the front? I saw her again tonight quite by accident, my friend Patty, and I’ve got to say she looks exactly the same. But why wouldn’t she? I just met her in 1959, which seems like only a few days ago when my mind plays tricks on me. Other days, it feels like the better part of forever. By 1968, we graduated from the eighth grade. Here we are in our official class pictures. Patty’s hair is curly now and mine is not so long, but honestly? We’re the same girls we’ve always been. On our eighth grade class outing, they actually let Patty drive the motor boat. I didn’t look frightened, but I’m pretty good at keeping a poker face when I’m scared out of my wits. And where the heck were our life jackets? I couldn’t swim as far as the next boat (the one containing Tim and Danny and Biff) to save my life, but I sure wouldn’t have admitted it on that glorious, carefree day. To have people in my life who go back as far as I go with Patty, well. It grounds me, it gives me a rootedness that makes me happier than any material possession. And it makes me so very thankful to think that some friends really do last forever. Posted by Doug Raymond on 01/08/07 Permalink Update On Projects Undertaken In 2006 (#1044) I kind of like being accountable, in a way, to my fallible readers. After all, occasionally some of you jump on a bandwagon of mine (waving to Staci, who gave up pop when I gave up Starbucks) and you demonstrate remarkable success. But what about me? Do I ever actually succeed in following through on one of my harebrained ideas, or is the instant gratification of starting enough for me? Here’s a run-down on my progress or lack thereof. I hope it inspires you to know that while I am old, I am capable of new tricks, or at least new attempts at old tricks. Therefore, young readers (and by my standards, believe me, most of you are YOUNG!), take courage! Doug and I succeeded in completely avoiding coffee joints for two entire months. Then, slowly, over a period of a month or so, our resolve not only began to slip but slipped completely. We went from having one coffee per week to two, then every other day, then daily. What can I say? We are of all addicts most to be pitied. Now, I am humbled to say, we are back on an every other day coffee run. I plan to move us into every third day as early as next week. These steps must be made as imperceptibly as possible, for the sake of my whiplashed husband’s equilibrium. The poor thing. Next subject: Getting and staying out of debt. Well. As you know, we are in the final stretch of the most expensive years of our lives. During the period beginning Sept 1, 2006 (Kev’s opening day at the expensive two-years-in-ten-months bachelor’s degree program which will complete his education as far as our wallets are concerned) and ending June 30, 2007 (when our daughter Carrie marries Marc), we will indeed continue to rack up debt. However, we are monthly throwing money at the paying down of this debt, and making excellent progress. By the time Carrie gets married, I believe we will have finished paying for Kev’s education (three college graduates, all debt-free!) and will have paid for the bulk of her wedding expenses—if not all. So far, the down payments on her dress, the venue, the photographer, etc. have been strictly pay as we go. I gotta’ say I’ve become quite a fan of Dave Ramsey. He’s only been on the radio here in KC for a few months now, but he’s got my attention. When callers call claiming to have household incomes WAY below ours, and that they’ve paid off umpteen dollars in debt and have even paid off their mortgage in only a few years time, well. I’m on board. How about losing weight? I started in earnest dropping pounds in June, after realizing that my Mama Escapades of 2005-2006 had caused weight to creep back on at an insidious but alarming rate. Since then, I’ve shed a cool 27 pounds. My jeans are a size 2, but as we all know by now if we’ve read anything about “vanity sizing,” 2 is the new 10. Now Doug and I have embarked on a renewed effort to EXERCISE, which for us means trodding the treadmill. Today is Day Three. And the decluttering project? Oh, my. Carrie moved in on July 31 with all her stuff, and will stay until she gets married. Kevin moved all his stuff in before leaving for Switzerland. It’s a freakin’ zoo around here. It’s nearly impossible to make headway with the added stuff, so I’m having to concentrate on not bringing any more into the house than is already here. When they move out, they’ve got to take ALL their things, or they will be donated to charity and WE’LL get the tax deduction. What about that novel I’m writing? NaNoEdMo went reasonably well, although November started and ended with my mother-in-law’s health problems. Four hospitalizations in a six-week period did NOT add to my productivity, but she’s doing a bit better, and that’s the main thing. I am STILL working on my novel, and the darned thing keeps improving, making me think it’s not time QUITE yet to stick a fork in it and proclaim it “done.” So I plod (if not plot) along. There you have it. Some successes, some failures, lots of room for improvement. All in all, just another old chick, Muddling Through. Posted by Katy on 01/05/07 Permalink Firmly Resolved (#1042) There are a few things I must have resolved somewhere along the way that have actually stuck. They weren’t New Year’s resolutions, just things I determined to do or not to do, and succeeded. As prone to addictions as I seem to be, I decided as a young woman that reading racy romance novels would not be in my best interest. I knew that I’d end up one of those girls who reads one per day and can’t go to sleep until she finishes the one she started at the office and turns down offers of a social life so she can stay home and devour another morsel. I also knew old ladies (my grandfather’s live-in maid was one) whose otherwise sparsely-furnished one-room apartments were filled with cardboard boxes from the A&P stuffed with yellowed paperbacks, whose well-worn covers were as ripped as the bodices within. Yikes! I did NOT want to be one of those old ladies! I firmly resolved not to get started, so I wouldn’t have to firmly resolve to stop! Even so, I managed to get sucked into The Guiding Light after Scotty was born in 1979. I watched that darned thing every day until Kevvie came along 5.5 years later. I used to send Scotty and Carrie up for their naps so I could imbibe in peace, but come on. Do other 5-year-olds still take naps? Finally, one day Scott said to me, “Why is this show OK for you to watch, but not OK for me?” I couldn’t come up with a good answer fast enough. The TV got turned off once and for all, at least at 2 in the afternoon M-F. One other thing I’ve sworn off before starting—because I could somehow see the end from the beginning and the end involved me being a bag lady—is scrapbooking. I realized that shopping for the various elements of the making of the books would be the thing that would latch on to me and not let go. I prophesied that no actual scrapbooks would be created no matter how wholeheartedly I claimed to be embracing the hobby. Only shopping would be accomplished—and lots of it. So I just said no, to myself and to all those who may have imagined themselves as hopeful future recipients of a Handmade Lovingly Fashioned Katy Scrapbook. Darn. Even now, I’ll admit I’m still tempted… There you have it. Two things I’ve never done, because of my firm resolution and yes, I’ll just say it—strong constitutional willpower. You can stop laughing now. And tell me: Any resolutions you’ve accidentally made that have actually taken? Because the ones I made yesterday, they are SO over. Posted by Katy on 01/02/07 Permalink Thumbnail Sketch (#1041) All the retail shops are open on New Year’s Day, you know. I guess I didn’t quite realize that, until now. You see, I’m not really much of a “day after” shopping gal. Although, I’ve gotta say that Carrie and I hit pay dirt on the 28th. Walmart had Christmas boxed sets of crystal hurricane-style candle holders for cheap—$2.50 each. They had exactly 30, the precise number we needed for centerpieces at her wedding reception. We cleaned them out, baby! Then, two days later, they marked the Christmas clearance stuff down again, by another 50%. Darned if we didn’t hightail it in there and get a $75.00 refund! Oh, so gratifying. And cheap. Gratifyingly cheap. But that was then. Today, I honestly didn’t even know if Starbucks would be open. Which would be a tragedy, since we received quite a number of gift cards to said establishment, gift cards designed—we are certain—to lure us back into daily imbibement. So far, by the way, they’re having their way with us. But I digress. We did coffee and then Doug said he had a list of things he needed at Walmart. I said, “Well, I know we could use eggs and milk. Let’s pop in and check it out…” Now, those words frighten men. Men don’t check out stores, at least not the men I know. Especially if they’ve just checked out the same store yesterday. Besides, Doug knows that I am DEDICATED to the proposition that not only SHOULD we be out of debt, but we WILL be out of debt, provided I apply the same discipline to not spending money as he applies to earning it. Therefore, my husband considers it his DUTY BEFORE GOD to help me live out my commitment by pulling me back from the edge—no matter how close, no matter how often. He’s good like that. Nothing, however, prepared me for what happened in the furnace filter department, the first stop on our shopping jaunt, where we put a year’s supply of that oft-forgotten home-maintenance item into our cart. “What else is on your list?” I asked. I hoped for a brief but fruitful fling through housewares, crafts, groceries, car parts, home decor, electronics, DVDs, and maybe even—if he was feeling lucky—lingerie, with the man of my shopping dreams by my side. He crammed his hand into his pants pocket and rooted around for awhile. Finally, his face registered success and he pulled out a comprehensive list of all his earthly needs. You know that saying, “Objects in mirror are larger than they appear”? Forget about it! This image of Doug’s fallible list is EXACTLY the size it appeared in real life. A smidge more paper, and he’d have had room to add “nightie” to his list. Ah, well. Times are tough everywhere. Posted by Katy on 01/01/07 Permalink Holidaze (#1040) So. The plan was to have our little family (Scott, Brooke, Carrie, Marc and no Kevvie, ‘cause of Europe calling his name) over at noon on Christmas Eve. Then, at around five, Doug’s family (Mom, Lynn, Nancy and Craig) would arrive and we’d all have my homemade Christmas dinner. I cooked and cleaned and cooked and cleaned and….yeah. More cooking and cleaning. The only thing I didn’t do was break out my grandmother’s wedding china (circa 1925) from the attic and set the dining room table. The hours ticked by, and still I felt no urgency to pull out the cloth napkins and gravy boat. I’m not usually that relaxed, folks. In fact, I’m never that relaxed. At 1:30, Adele called Doug. “I feel awful. I sure hope I’m better by the time Lynn picks me up at 4:30…” Her voice faded into wistfulness. For weeks, through four hospitalizations and a nursing home stay, Adele had talked of nothing else but how much she looked forward to coming to our house for Christmas. But when it came down to it, another Executive Decision had to be made—by me, the Chief Home Executive. “We’re taking Christmas to her,” I told Doug when he got off the phone. “Call her Funny Farm and ask if we can use that private dining room off the lobby. I’ll start packing.” And that’s what we did. Adele got wheeled down to the party, and didn’t have the hassle of trying to drum up the strength to get in and out of a car and up the three steps to our front door. She seemed SO relieved when Doug called her back to say the location of the shindig had been changed. Sometimes, I’ve found, our elders are just BEGGING for one of us to bail them out of an obviously untenable situation, without them actually having to say, “I am not able to make this work.” It was a fun party, and I think Adele enjoyed herself. Since then, we’ve made more progress on the process that began with her last hospitalization—that of attempting to get her medications sorted out, since they may be the source of many of her health problems. Just in case you don’t know: Doctors are EXCELLENT at prescribing meds, but not so good at removing them. It often, if not always, takes determined effort and vigilence on the part of the patient and her family to revisit that old medication list and adjust it to reflect changing needs. As an example: When a woman loses 100 pounds and then has repeated episodes of her blood pressure plummeting to something like—I don’t know—zero over zero? Might be a good idea to eval whether or not she still needs meds for high blood pressure, don’t you think? During her first three runs to the hospital, no doctor picked up on that. Or if they did, they didn’t let on. On the fourth trip, we hit pay dirt. A doctor willing to play the part, and not just on TV. I’m rambling. I know. This past year or so, it’s what I do. It’s a coping mechanism, I guess. Rambling—touching on the high and low lights of a million tangential subjects while attempting in vain not to obsess about any. Maybe my New Year’s Resolution will be to “Get Focused.” Sounds strong, but I have a feeling it’s too non-specific. How would I be able to quantify having achieved my goal? Here’s one that sounds a lot more doable, and I’m sure it will give me that sense of accomplishment I seek: “Muddle Through.” I’ll be 53 tomorrow. If I can Muddle Through an event like that, I guess I’m up for anything. Posted by Katy on 12/28/06 Permalink Mail At Year’s End (#1039) Doug’s mother got home from the hospital today, for the second time since Monday. I’m watching the clock, since she’s been back in her assisted living place for about six hours, and that’s how long she made it the last time before they found her blood pressureless and non-responsive, still holding the newspaper in a death grip in front of her face. I’m not superstitious, you understand. I know there’s a very good mathematical probability that she’ll beat her old six-hour record and we’ll manage to stay out of the ER till tomorrow. Hey, it could happen. For today, we took our joy where we could get it—in Adele’s ten days worth of accumulated mail. Doug’s sister Lynn wheeled her into the apartment and Doug got her situated in her recliner. Then she asked for the freakin’ huge stack of mail she’d witnessed them hauling out of her box. Some people live for money, others for power, and many for pleasure. Adele? She lives for junk mail. Since we, her heirs, have only recently cut our own inheritance by two-thirds through the process of dejunkmailing her apartment, it behooves us to keep as much paper from entering therein as possible. Because folks, once it finds its way onto her couch, kitchen table, bookcase headboard, or TV tray, it becomes a part of her. She can’t distinguish the good from the junk, and therefore will part with none of it. She opened a Christmas letter from a supposed friend today and started reading. Two pages of single-spaced typewritten annual news. After a few paragraghs, which Adele read aloud to us, she asked, “Who is this FROM?” Then she turned it over and said, “Jan? Do I know someone named Jan?” Doug, Lynn, and I started chuckling, but Adele was not deterred from catching up on Jan’s life. “She’s gone to visit her daughters, Charlotte and Renee. In Colorado. The girls came to Kansas City over Thanksgiving, this says.” “But do you know a lady whose daughters are named Charlotte and Renee?” Doug asked. “No.” She used her index finger to track along the page, reading aloud to us. “She says, ‘I sat by the pond on our old property and watched the Canadian geese land on the water and then fly away again. I bet I watched them for a whole hour.’” OK, people, when an hour spent watching the geese gets top billing in your annual Christmas letter, you’re either very old, extremely boring, or Henry David Thoreau. Somehow, I figured Jan didn’t live on Walden Pond. “Oh, no,” Adele said. She’d read under her breath for a few seconds while the three of us rolled on the floor. “It says here Ira died.” “But we don’t know anyone named Ira,” Doug said. “I do,” Adele said. “Nicest fellow you’ll ever meet. And his wife? Lovely woman. Marian is her name.” “How do you know them?” I asked. “From your old neighborhood? Or maybe from church?” Suddenly, the lights came on. “They live here!” Adele said. “Well, now it’s just Marian. Ira died. Says here they were married 68 years.” I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t help thinking Marian’s hour of geese-staring got him. “I’m confused,” I said. “If this letter is from Marian, who is Jan?” Doug took the letter from his mother’s hands, turned it over, and melted into a puddle of holiday cheer. “Marian’s gone to Colorado, all right. Her last line says, ‘See you in Jan!’” If I don’t post much in the next few days, you’ll know why. I’m either staring at the geese on the pond next door, or I’ve decided to see you in Jan. Merry Christmas, everyone! Posted by Katy on 12/22/06 Permalink Bingo! (#1038) I’m baking whole wheat bread today, and yeah, I grind the wheat at home, immediately before baking. I’ll crank out at least ten loaves, maybe fifteen. A whole bunch of them—however many will fit—will get packed into an enormous rolling cooler and become my entry in the McKenna Family Gift Exchange. I fully expect my nephew Andy (who LOVES my bread) to fight for the right to walk away with the cooler and its contents. THAT will be fun to witness. In the meantime, my anticipation level while grinding and mixing and kneading remains on high alert. Why? Because ANY SECOND NOW, I expect the doorbell to ring, and the good old FedEx guy to drop off another holiday package from Kohl’s or Amazon or wherever. I can’t explain it. But the juxtaposition of the floury mess, the apron, the divine smells, the twinkly lights, and the doorbell really does it for me. Any combinations you can’t get enough of? Posted by Katy on 12/20/06 Permalink I’m Sorry, But That’s REALLY Pathetic… (#1037) You know what’s just wrong? When you don’t know which of the indie coffee joints around town have free wifi, but you know EXACTLY which hospitals do. Posted by Katy on 12/19/06 Permalink When All Else Fails, Change Hospitals? (#1036) I wonder if it bodes well that two blog posts in a row have titles that end in question marks, but I digress. Wait a minute. Can I digress before I’ve started? I just don’t know anymore. But if I can, I do. So there. By all indications, it’s morning. It’s light outside. Carrie left for work, I know. I stumbled into the kitchen and made coffee. Did I mention it’s light outside? Doug and I drove separate cars last night, just because. I was in my pajamas when the call came that we were to meet the ambulance at the hospital, so I wasn’t sure how long I’d hold up. The last thing I said to Doug before we each jumped in a car was, “You’d better do some fast thinking. If I were you, I’d make an executive decision to switch hospitals, now.” He ended up redirecting the paramedics to a hospital clear across town—45 minutes from us. But at least the ER doctor took enough of an interest in her case to pursue getting her admitted. Have any of you tried to get admitted to a hospital recently? It’s no small trick. The deal is that most of the primary care physicians in big cities seem to no longer have admitting privileges at the hospitals. In other words, if you show up in an ER with heart attack symptoms or whatever, they are NOT going to call your doctor to discuss your situation. Each hospital has its own staff of specialists and generalists, and it will be one of them who decides your fate. Remember the old days, when your tried and true doc would visit you every morning in the hospital, while making his rounds? No such thing any more, folks. You will see all docs you’ve never seen before, who have no stake in your past or your future, no relationship with you at all, unless you’ve been there just last week, in which case they’ll want to dispense with you at the first possible opportunity, as you appear suspiciously like a liability. Yeah. It’s like that. Doug and I recently switched doctors, and we LOVED our old doc. But a couple of months ago, Doug’s sister was admitted to the hospital and we went to see her the next morning, a Saturday. While we were there, who should walk in but her very own actual doctor! And, it turns out, he has admitting privileges at an actual hospital! Unheard of around these parts. We liked everything about him, so we switched. I can’t help but believe the continuity of care suffers tremendously when a patient is thrown in with a whole group of hospital-employed docs who are not vested in him as a person. I spend inordinate amounts of time and effort establishing good, solid relationships with those in whom I entrust the care of my loved ones so that when they need attention, the doctors at least recognize our names. Anyway, last night we started over with Adele. We had no choice. Now we need to get up and go meet a whole new group of doctors, and hope that interest in her as a person is sustained long enough to provide some much-needed answers. Posted by Katy on 12/19/06 Permalink Big Fish? (#1035) You know what I think? (Warning: Serious Rant Just Ahead.) I think that people in the medical profession—especially those old-school docs who believe that a patient and her family members should be seen, not heard, and heavily billed—should go ahead and figure out that some of us have google and know how to search it. Because you know what? One of these days, I may pull this particular blog post out of the fallible archives and say “See here? When I documented for the entire Internet that before you dismissed my mother-in-law from the hospital on December 18, 2006, I googled ‘Vitamin B12 deficiency cancer,’ I didn’t do it for grins.” Adele’s been in the hospital three times in six weeks. And spent two of those six weeks in a nursing home. Today, though, they’re sending her back to her assisted living apartment. Not only do they not know why she’s having these extreme bouts of dizziness and very low blood pressure (and I do understand that things like this aren’t always diagnoseable), but now Dr. G. is denying that she has non-exixtent B-12, a condition that’s been well-established in the past month. See, in June of 2005, Adele had a near-death experience resulting in surgery to remove horrible abscesses which were wrapped around and connecting her gall bladder, liver, pancreas and etc. Then she’s told last month that she’s not absorbing B-12, which can cause all kinds of symptoms like dizziness, dementia, and neurological damage, some of which may be irreversible even if the vitamin problem is corrected. Two days ago, a different doctor told the family that he was ordering consults with a hematologist and an oncologist, but he didn’t tell them what exactly he might be looking for. So I google and find out that when certain abdominal surgeries are performed on an elderly person, B-12 should be automatically given by injection afterwards because the surgery may interfere with the body’s ability to absorb the vitamin if taken orally. And then the information went on to say that in a subset of patients who are not treated thusly, stomach cancer develops. Hence, I suspect, the mention of an oncology consult. But even if they found something like stomach cancer, there’s not much they’d do about it. It’s usually discovered way late in the game, and she’s far too fragile for chemo or more surgery. Besides, little symptoms like losing a gazillion pounds without trying and having bouts of diarrhea don’t mean much in the bigger picture, do they? Purely incidental findings, wouldn’t you say? Of course, none of this matters at all, because the good news is that as of today, all consults are off! And guess what? Not only are they not going to give her the daily shots they prescribed last night as being absolutely essential to turning her situation around, but she doesn’t have a B-12 deficiency at all! Ha! Such fun we’re having with her and her kids, jerking them around with all our talk about tests and specialists!!! We’re sending Adele home, to live out her last days in the kind of oblivion formerly enjoyed by everyone, before google made it so pesky family members could figure out what the heck was going on by keying in a couple well-placed key words! Surely Adele’s family doesn’t include anyone who actually uses the Internet, does it? She may be fine, people, but my head is spinning from all the back-pedaling I’ve witnessed in the last 48 hours. So I thought I’d just get it documented right here, right now. I hope they’re telling the truth and I can’t read plain English. That would make everything much simpler going forward. But right now, something smells mighty fishy, and I’m no where near a Joe’s Crabshack. Posted by Katy on 12/18/06 Permalink The Race Is On (#1034) I don’t know what style of Christmas shopper you are, but I’m the type who feels guilty at the last minute. I began this whole event with a benchmark in place—the $$ I’d put into Traveling Kevin’s bank account to cover his Christmas break in Europe, which officially begins today. Tonight, he’ll take the train to Paris, where he’ll stay in a hostel for two nights before moving on to Germany to do the same. Then he’ll join a new friend of his in Austria, where he’ll spend Christmas with that guy’s family—an invitation for which I am most grateful. Anyway, I started doing the comps and feeling like one of the kid’s hauls just didn’t pile up like the others, and that I have to make things fair. Because, really, I DO love them all equally and what if one of them began to think otherwise? My daughter-in-law, Brooke? She’s like my own daughter, and I want her to KNOW that. And then there’s my soon-to-be son-in-law, Marc. Why, it wouldn’t do for him to feel like he’s any less a part of the family than the others, would it? Yesterday, I’ll tell you, was like a horse race. Carrie was the first one out of the shoot, FAR ahead of the laggers for upwards of an hour. Then I went to Kohl’s and very nearly plunked down enough $$ to put Scott in the lead—but no. The saleslady reminded me that the Super Power Hours didn’t start until 3 pm, and I’d do well to come back then for even better bargains. I left empty-carted. When I got home, I logged onto Kohl’s website to see if I could pick up an item that the stores are always out of—something for Marc. Of course, to get the free shipping, I had to spend $75. Luckily, I knew of several other things he wanted, so it didn’t take long for him to pull into the lead. By the time Power Hours started, Doug and I were in the physical store again, where Brooke caught up with the rest of the horses. Then, on the way home, we stopped at Lowe’s, and darned if Scott didn’t win the race by a hare. That’s right, a hare. How long can I keep up this frenzied equalizing? Until the stores close on Christmas Eve, that’s how long. But running into this video on YouTube is helping me rein it in a bit. Steve Martin is one of my favorite men. Hope you love it as much as I do. Good Christmas Shopping to you! Posted by Katy on 12/16/06 Permalink The Giver (#1033) What can you say about a God who would spend eternity planning to interrupt time with the gift of His redemptive love? It’s not like He hadn’t tried a thousand times before the Nativity, tried to reach into the lives of those He created, tried to show them the way back to Him. They’d listen sometimes, too, and follow for a while, until things got too good and they didn’t think they needed what He had to offer anymore. He knew what He would do all along, of course. He knew that giving the children of Israel His law would only serve to show them how far they’d fallen, and how they could never really be redeemed by the blood of goats and lambs. He gave them the law as a gift, but it was purposely incomplete, like giving a beautiful new car without a key or a platinum setting minus the perfect center diamond. We tear into gifts on Christmas Day as if we’re missing something, as if the Father hadn’t already given us everything pertaining to life and godliness when He gave us Jesus, as if we still need something…else. My heart is breaking this Christmas. I am close to so many hurting people, and it makes me sad that the one gift Who makes all the difference is often the Only One left untouched. When you finish with the opening of the season’s bounty, when you’re gathering up the leftover debris of paper and ribbons and bows, take another look around the room to be certain you didn’t miss something…or Someone. There, in your child’s eyes, in your mother’s voice, in your friend’s smile, you just may find Him once again. What can you say about a God who spent eternity past to give you the Christmas present of His Son? There is none like Him. Posted by Katy on 12/14/06 Permalink Not Just One Mama Mia, Either (#1032) Carrie just popped into our bedroom to say good-bye. Hard to believe she’s already lived with us for over four months, but it’s true. It’s lovely having her here. “Well,” I said, “they went ahead and admitted her last night.” She shrugged her shoulders, clueless. “Who?” “Grandma.” “Grandma Who?” Poor Carrie. She’d gone to Grandma Mary’s last night at my request. I was supposed to meet her there, where we were going to help Mom put together a “craft”—her contribution to our family’s gift exchange, an event she’s been stressing and obsessing about with a level of depression normally reserved for unhappy circumstances. My mother’s been having a Holiday Meltdown Of Tremendous Proportions. She’s one of those people who shouldn’t be around weapons or alcohol or bungee cords or drugs from Halloween through Valentine’s Day. And then again from Easter until Labor Day. She’s safe, I think, except for the drugs—which always seem to flow way more freely than they should. I never arrived at Mom’s. My car had a Holiday Meltdown, too. It was already dark when The Call Of The Mama lured me from my home, and I cannot see to drive after dark. But, heck. Mom only lives 15 minutes down the road, and I always say I could get there with my eyes closed. Of course, I could. As long as someone else was driving. My car’s defroster decided to malfunction completely and driving blind AND deaf takes all the thrill out of the sport. So I pulled into our church parking lot, an eight-minute drive from our house, crying because I’d nearly wrecked the car, and found my cell phone in my purse. Why I carry the darned thing, I don’t know. I can’t hear on cell phones, but you know? In this day and age, it seems like the safe thing to do. Of course, since I never use it and don’t remember to recharge it because I never use it, I never…um…use it. The church, bless its heart, looked open. I let myself in and experienced the meaning of the word “sanctuary.” I found a phone and called Doug, who said he’d come to get me. Then I tried to call Carrie’s cell, but she doesn’t answer it if she doesn’t recognize the number. An attempt to call my mother—who would now be worried because Carrie had arrived and I had not—turned up nothing. Were the two of them up in the facility’s lobby waiting for me? Who knew? I waited and waited for Doug, and then decided to give my hobo bag a good jingle. Sure enough—I had not one but both sets of keys. Leaving him at home with a car but no way to drive one. I tried to call him again, but got no answer on either the home phone or his cell. After thirty minutes of waiting, he showed up at the church. He’d found a spare key somewhere. Carrie finally answered the phone in Mom’s apartment and I talked Mom down from the ceiling. “Tomorrow,” I said, “in the daylight. I will be there. I promise.” Doug had to go home for a business meeting. One of our cars got Left Behind at the church. Turned out Doug can’t see too well in the dark, either. He almost hit a concrete barrier that he mistook for a deer, swerving with such vigor to miss it that I had to take a muscle relaxor for my neck. Thirty seconds up the road, a genuine deer encountered a very near miss with Doug, who didn’t swerve at all that time. “Which Grandma?” Carrie repeated, car keys in one hand and sack lunch in the other. “Grandma Adele, of course. Who did you think I meant?” That’s what happens when you go to bed at 10:30 like she does. You only THINK you’re up-to-the-minute on The Grandma Brigade, but trust me, if you blink, you miss something. Doug’s mother spent much of November in the hospital and then the nursing home before going back to her assisted living apartment. Last night was her second ambulance trip to the hospital this month. They did not want to send her home like they did last week because…well, they are clueless why her blood pressure keeps bottoming out. Today may be one of those Doug And Katy Raymond Divide And STILL Don’t Conquer Days, or we both may do both of The Moms. Together. Together. Yeah, that sounds good. Posted by Katy on 12/13/06 Permalink When I’m Old, I Will NEVER…. (#1031) OK, here’s the deal. It’s come to my attention over the course of nearly 53 years of observation that we humans spend a lot of time thinking about and committing to various versions of “When I grow up, I will be a different kind of parent…” or “When I get my own apartment, I will always have a bag of chocolate chips in the freezer…” or “I will never let my body go to heck in a handbasket like my mother or grandmother or sister or aunt has.” You get the idea. You’ve said this stuff, too, right? At this stage of my life, the thing I’m promising myself, my husband, and my children I will NEVER do is accumulate so much worthless junk that my descendents are unduly burdened with unsaddling it either before or after my demise. I tell myself EVERY DAY that I will stay on top of it, stay free of it, deal with it. And yet, I can’t help but notice that old people invariably stop dealing, and their kids have to do the job—kids who, while they chisel their way through the old folks’ debris, promise that THEY will never do such a thing to their children. So tell me. What have you promised you’ll do differently than the behavior that’s been patterned for you? What makes you believe you can break the pattern? Do we merely deceive ourselves when we make these commitments, or is there hope? (Please, tell me there’s hope, even if you have to lie to do it.) And if you have any reassurances you’d like to offer my adorable children about the future state of dear, old Mom and Pop’s basement, attic, and garage, I’m sure they’d appreciate the comfort right about now. Posted by Katy on 12/12/06 Permalink Repetitive Stress Ministries (#1030) I know. Most people suffer sports injuries while actually doing…sports. Not me. I learned my lesson on that years ago. In a flurry of binge-exercising sixteen years ago, I purchased a chintzy stair-stepper and went to town. OK, maybe not town, exactly. More like the operating room, but then, you’d probably already figured that out about me, right? My orthopedic man fixed one of my knees (and I’ve managed to ignore the other one ever since) but I’ll tell you what: that was a very painful surgery from which to recover, complicated by the fact that I had a previously scheduled 5 for the price of 5 twelve-hour operation a mere six weeks later. Since then, my friends, I’ve sworn off surgery in a big way—except, of course, for brain surgery. But come on! Who counts that? In order to swear off surgery, I’ve had to swear off exercise-induced injury. The beauty of lifting free weights eludes me, since the herniated disks (or is it discs? I don’t know…) in my neck cry out for mercy when I attempt so much as the hoisting of a gallon of 2% into the shopping cart. I cannot tolerate the pounding of pavement or any other surface less shock absorbant than shag carpet. Mercifully, I no longer own any shag carpet. I am able and sometimes go through spurts of using our treadmill, on which I’ve never injured myself, but I digress. Excercise, for me, is almost always a digression. My topic today is not really sports injuries. It’s repetitive stress injuries, a subject with which I have far more intimate and ongoing familiarity. And more specifically, it’s what I have come to call repetitive stress ministries. A repetitive stress ministry is one you can’t bear to give up, even though every joint and ganglion cyst you possess rebels against your heart. The ministry I don’t want to abandon is called Mercy and Truth in Kansas City. Cathy Gordon, the ministry’s founder, is an RN who has made medical missions her life. Besides setting up clinics in locations around the world, she runs several here in town. She even operates a birthing clinic, with the bulk of the mothers living below the poverty level. A few years ago, I decided I couldn’t bear for these new moms—many of whom do not have heated homes—to leave the birthing clinic without a handmade afghan for their babies. And for a while, I cranked those puppies out, too—keeping up with the growing number of births with some efficiency. Then, well—repetitive stress set in and I had to have my dumb finger operated on. Since then, I’ve barely crocheted. In fact, I haven’t crocheted. Around the time I had surgery, though, a young woman who belongs to the same national writers group I do—American Christian Fiction Writers—contacted me. We’d never met, but she read my profile on the group’s website and saw that I loved to make blankies for babies. She asked if she could help. Could she? Today I received an enormous carton of crocheted afghans plus a whole slew of darling hats for the babies at Mercy and Truth. A gift from Kathleen Morphy and her friend Karen, who enclosed a handwritten card for each new mother. Maybe the hugest blessing to me is this: Kathleen has terrible tendonitis. She is a writer, and can hardly type because of the pain. In her daily life, she helps her mother take care of her dad, who has Lou Gehrig’s disease. Yet out of the goodness of her heart, she also stepped in to help me—a complete stranger. Kathleen, I want to thank you here and now for joining with me in this Repetitive Stress Ministry. You’ve shown some sweet babies and their moms a lot of love. May God completely heal you and grant you the grace to do all He’s planned for your life. And a blessed, merry Christmas to you. Posted by Katy on 12/11/06 Permalink Page 23 of 84 pages « First < 21 22 23 24 25 > Last »


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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